


I'll hold my breath

by Little_Lottie (tfwatson)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sexual Content, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwatson/pseuds/Little_Lottie
Summary: Sometimes Bucky’s hands flex in Steve's direction. Neither of them knows exactly why, but at least one of them has a hunch.Bucky touches everything but Steve, even though Steve is all he really wants to touch.





	I'll hold my breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brobi_Wan_Kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brobi_Wan_Kenobi/gifts).



> Happy birthday to tumblr user @stevebuckythyla!

Steve got Bucky back on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday night.

 

He’d been waiting outside when Steve got home, sitting in the hall with his head tipped back against the wall, relaxed as if he knew he'd never be a stranger at Steve’s door. Which was true, and Steve wanted to shake his head and say ‘ _you have no idea,’_ because here Bucky was, unexpected and unannounced and probably without the slightest idea how welcome he really was.

 

God, _finally._ Steve hadn't prayed since he was a kid, but he sighed upwards anyway. Then it was all he could do to stand at the end of the hall and breathe. Stand and breathe and look.

 

The weather that afternoon had been kind to Bucky. Steve himself had been caught in a downpour that had blacked out half the city for two hours straight, but Bucky’s dark wash jeans and leather jacket were dry, which meant he must have been waiting inside Steve’s apartment block for a while.

 

There was no doubt that Bucky had heard Steve’s tread on the stairs, but he’d acted like he hadn’t. He’d been giving Steve the time to work through the shock so they’d be on an even footing when they were eventually eye to eye. It was the sort of unspoken, uncomplicated gift they’d always given each other.

 

Bucky kept his eyes down, watching the play of his hands while he span a cell between his fingers like he wasn't being watched from the end of the hallway. Steve didn't need to see his face to know that the deep blue Henley he was wearing was the exact shade that had always made Bucky’s eyes spark.

 

It would have been nice to have been able to blame the light, but it was just Steve’s rose-tinted glasses that made Bucky look soft and honey-sweet as he waited patiently, and Steve found himself breathing out his name before he was ready. A quiet, “Buck,” because he'd been thinking it every damn day but hadn't had the chance to say it in nearly a lifetime.

 

There was a hairband and a black bracelet and a circlet of a bruise around Bucky’s wrist, but when he looked up, his eyes were clear like Steve hadn't seen in half a century. That night, none of the scars left by the wear of time had shown on that lovely face.

 

Eleven Tuesday nights later, the man Steve has always loved smiles and sasses and does all the things Bucky used to do, but Steve has noticed the little circle of space he keeps around himself, a buffer half a meter in diameter that he wears like a suit of armor against the world.

 

The problem is, Steve can't ignore the fist to the gut feeling that tells him the thing Bucky’s actually trying to protect himself from, is Steve.

 

~

 

Steve comes home in the same way he always has, and it could almost be any random day from a couple of years back. Tonight however, he’s not under the supervision of an over-qualified neighborhood watch, and the world’s best assassin isn’t scoping his living room from the adjacent roof but is instead boiling potatoes on his stove.

 

There are other differences too, but the point of comparison for those changes goes much further back.

 

These days, Bucky touches surfaces whenever he enters a room and grips inanimate objects too tight when something sparks at a danger zone inside his head. The movements are casual and slight, and Steve isn’t even sure Bucky knows he’s doing it. Steve knows though, of course he does, because over the years and with every shared memory, some part of him has tuned into every single part of Bucky.

 

The changes are subtle, and none of them are bad, but Steve can see that at every turn Bucky instinctively looks for something sturdy to anchor himself to, that he seeks out warmth where he can, taking hot baths that flirt with the very lip of the tub, deep and molten hot.

 

Coincidentally, Steve has read something about this.

 

Like Roald Dahl’s Matilda, in his between-mission boredom Steve reads everything he can get his hands on — including Matilda. More relevantly, he’s made his way through most of the reference books Sam brings to and from the VA. It was a while back, but he remembers something about hot baths helping to negate feelings of loneliness. Something about the part of the brain that registers physical temperature being sensitive to feelings of loneliness and social rejection.

 

It’s not hard to make connections between the academic theory and Bucky’s real life behavior. It’s not even a leap. It’s a tiny hop. And Steve reasons that Bucky wouldn’t mind him theorizing. It’s science. Bucky likes science.

 

The conclusion goes pretty much like this: Bucky finds his hugs in the bathtub, and in the slow smoothing of his palms across the sheets every time he makes and remakes the beds. He takes comfort in the way he brushes his fingers over the fabric of the curtains and the folds of Steve’s best sweater.

 

But he doesn't brush Steve. He doesn’t touch him at all.

 

Instead, Bucky works carefully around his periphery, so subtly that nobody else would notice. But Steve remembers that their skies used to touch and now Bucky just hovers on the edges of him, orbiting in measured circles.

 

If, before the war, they’d been lovers like Steve had wanted since the moment he discovered that people _could_ be lovers, then it might be easier. That theory will have to remain academic though because neither of them has ever pushed the borders of their relationship past friendship, and now it feels like they’re only going backwards; they at least used to touch.

 

Still, Bucky’s hands flex in Steve direction sometimes and while neither of them knows exactly why, at least one of them has a hunch.

 

~

 

From time to time a hunch is enough, and while Steve had gone into November despondent, he comes out of it hopeful.

 

One cold November night, Bucky finds Steve’s list and plans to join him in crossing off what remains. Steve doesn't have the heart to tell him that he'd never gotten round to crossing through half the things he's done, so he ends up rewatching movies as if it’s the first time, feigning surprise at the appropriate plot developments, and agrees to listen to records that he could already tell Bucky he won’t like.

 

He’s sure that Bucky’s on to him but he never calls him out.

 

A week later, they’ve reached a point on the list that Steve himself had reached a month ago. Steve doesn’t care. Not with Bucky curled at the other end of the sofa, fighting hard to look like he hasn’t spent the last four nights sleeping then dreaming then staying awake for fear of dreaming again. Steve’s not surprised when Bucky dozes off ten minutes in to Blue Planet.

 

He doesn’t know how long Bucky sleeps for, but he’s too busy thinking about how the light is framing Bucky’s jaw to notice when blue eyes flicker open and meet his across the sofa. He startles, but if Bucky is bothered by waking up to Steve’s eyes on him, he doesn’t say anything. The sharp catch in Steve’s lungs at the thought of being caught out lets up slightly.

 

There’s a feathery piece of hair falling across Bucky’s sleep-glazed eyes. He’d had it cut a week ago, is still getting used to the shorter sides and back. He’s taken to running his hands through the longer strands on top, soft and chestnut-rich, and Steve can’t blame him.

 

Before he can think to stop himself, Steve reaches out to tuck the stray piece of hair behind Bucky’s ear.

 

It all happens so quickly and it isn’t until Steve has crossed back over their invisible line to resettle on his own side of the sofa that he realizes what he’s done. He freezes, wide eyes darting up to meet equally wide blue-gray ones.

 

Bucky looks surprised, but Steve doesn’t see panic or rejection. He sees Bucky’s muscles sinking a little further into the couch cushions, hears the breathy little sigh that escapes his lips.

 

“Alright?” Steve hears himself ask, heart lodged somewhere very high up in his throat.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice cracking a little before he swallows hard.

 

Steve tries not to gasp when Bucky’s eyelashes flutter closed for a couple of very long seconds.

 

~

 

Steve takes off to the kitchen pretty quickly after that.

 

It sounds cowardly, but that wasn’t the reason Steve tapped out. Whatever Bucky was feeling, Steve figures he doesn’t need to see Steve’s lovesick expression or the way his eyes had darkened, inexplicably turned on from just touching a strand of hair.

 

The kettle rattles on the stove. The type that whistles. Steve had chosen it himself, but waiting for its piping shriek tonight has his gut plummeting in an odd sort of anticipation.

 

He jumps a foot in the air when Bucky speaks from behind him.

 

“Bucky,” he chides automatically, the way he always does when Bucky appears out of nowhere just to piss him off.

 

Only this time, it’s entirely different. This time Bucky isn’t hovering in the doorway. He’s _close._ His chest is almost pressed to Steve’s back, so nearly touching that Steve can feel the heat radiating off of him. So close that when Steve turns to face him, drawn like a magnet, he has to step back and Steve regrets trying to turn in the first place.

 

Bucky has a blanket around his shoulders. The one that Steve had laid over him when he first fell asleep to pack-hunting killer whales. The fluffiest one.

 

He’s still standing closer than he would normally when he asks, “Wanna make some pancakes?”

 

Steve watches him move around the kitchen, grabbing a carton of blueberries and a bunch of bananas and sliding them onto the table in front of Steve’s hands like an offering. Then he smiles as he tips a new bottle of beer to his lips.

 

Steve frowns in confusion. “It’s 2am.”

 

Bucky laughs around the bottle, a beautiful, bright sound, and levels Steve with a look. “I know for a fact that you’ve done some crazier shit than this, Steve.”

 

Steve smirks. “Blueberry or banana?” he asks because whatever Bucky wants, Steve’s always in.

 

Bucky just smiles and swallows another mouthful of beer.

 

Tearing his gaze away from Bucky’s wet lips, Steve reaches for a banana. Before he can grab it though, the back of Bucky’s hand gently connects with the side of his. Steve inhales sharply, nerves fizzing at the contact of soft skin and the delicate bump of knuckle.

 

When he looks up, Bucky is watching him so fiercely that for a second Steve doesn’t quite know whether he’s about to sock Steve in the face or cry. Then he notices the tiny little smile on Bucky’s lips. It’s hopeful and wondering as he slowly guides Steve’s hand towards the blueberries.

 

“Knew I could twist your arm,” Bucky says before letting out a quiet scoff of laughter and pulling his hand away to tuck it into the pocket of his sweats. “Making pancakes at 2am,” he smirks. “Such a rebel.”

 

The way his lips twitch with that tentative, secretive little smile is damn near irresistible.

 

~

 

That night was just the start.

 

Each day that follows, the borders Bucky has put up between them gradually start to bleed into one another. Smudged like the graphite lines on Steve’s sketches when he smooths them under his thumb.

 

Bucky starts to pass by a bit closer, to sit a little nearer, sometimes stumbling with un-assassin like clumsiness right into Steve’s side. Steve would be lying if he said he wasn't suspicious about that last one, but he’d never look a gift horse in the mouth where Bucky was concerned.

 

~

 

Bucky was _not_ ready for Mad Max: Fury Road. Neither was Steve to be honest. They don’t even get to the muzzle.

 

He might have been pretending to sleep, but Bucky doesn’t answer when Steve asks, “Mind if we switch?” He flicks at the remote quickly and his own chest loosens when Bucky visibly relaxes.

 

“Well, that’s…. that,” Bucky observes quietly, two cushions away.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I might need to recover in a dark room.”

 

“You’re _in_ a dark room,” Bucky points out, but his body is relaxing, unfurling, and he’s sitting up opposite Steve with a grateful smile.

 

Bucky looks at him for a long moment and it’s like he’s trying to tell Steve something. His body is still in that contained-fiery-energy way of his, but his eyes are clear.

 

Steve sees all the things Bucky won't say laid bare on his face. All the horror and the pain and the guilty joy of survival. And the bravery, braver now in the act of sharing it than in the terror of facing it all in the first place.

 

While Steve takes it all in, the lights from the street outside light Bucky up in reds and golds, before casting him back into the charcoal smudge of shadow.

 

When Bucky thinks Steve’s seen enough, he turns his attention to the new channel and brings his feet up onto the sofa, moving around sinfully in those skin tight jeans he’s started wearing to mess with Steve’s head. His toes come to rest close to Steve’s thigh.

 

Steve's breath hitches, suddenly hyper aware of every part of their bodies that almost touch.

 

Bucky’s hand comes up to scratch at his stubble — he’ll shave in the morning, he always does, but for now it shadows his jaw and makes Steve want to run his nails through it too — then drops to rest against his ankle, one slow finger stroking over the bone.

 

Steve notices this because he’s looking, and because he’s been following the two black leather bands that stripe Bucky’s wrist. Sometimes Steve will catch Bucky fiddling with them, looping them round and round his wrist until the line of his spine loosens.

 

He thinks about what Bucky has shared with him and he reaches out to weave his fingers through the bracelets. It’s like he's tangling them up, locking the two of them together. And Bucky lets him.

 

~

 

The following night they’re watching Elf. Bucky is laughing along happily, but he’s also fidgeting.

 

Steve’s on the verge of griping at him when he hears Bucky’s voice drift out from under three separate blankets and carry over the length of the sofa.

 

“Turn the volume up?”

 

Half asleep, Steve fumbles for the remote on his lap, under his thigh, in the creases between the cushions, then when he finds nothing but air, clumsily pats at the space between him and Bucky, only to find that Bucky has shifted in that silent way of his and that Steve’s hand has just landed on the soft curve of his waist.

 

“Sorry,” Steve mutters. He goes to pull his hand away but on its quick retreat, Bucky catches the tips of his fingers with a couple of his own, pressing down gently until Steve’s palm is back against his side.

 

Steve blinks, heart racing as he tries to concentrate on the screen. It’s an impossible task when all he can think is that he’s _touching Bucky_.

 

“Found it,” Bucky declares a second later.

 

The sudden sound in the tension they’ve created makes Steve flinch, but he quickly understands two things: one is that Bucky is talking about the remote, and second that Bucky has moved barely an inch in his quest to find it.

 

But then, Steve realizes, he wouldn’t have had to. Because the remote has been under Bucky’s hand the whole time.

 

~

 

One hour was all the warning Steve got. Sixty minutes before Clint, Natasha and Sam would be turning up on his doorstep for an impromptu movie night. The thing was, they didn’t know about Bucky.

 

Steve had looked up from the message to see Bucky grinning at something on his own phone, and wasted three of those precious minutes watching him laugh and smile full-beam, and by god did Steve love him.

 

“Vines,” Bucky chuckled in explanation when he clocked Steve looking.

 

Wiping at his eyes and shaking his head on another laugh, Bucky had glanced up from the screen only to smile a little bit wider at whatever expression Steve was wearing. Steve himself couldn't be sure of anything but that he loved Bucky something fierce.

 

Steve had quickly ducked his head back to his phone, firing off a reply that begrudgingly accepted his fate, and letting them all know that they’d be making room in his tiny living room for one more. And that under no circumstances should any of them make a big deal out of it.

 

It wasn’t much of a heads up, and that’s probably why everyone is now walking through the door, trying not to look at Bucky and trying really hard to glare at Steve.

 

But how could Steve have told them? How could he have explained that in some way, he was worried that just talking about Bucky's reappearance would blow the whole dream right out of the air. He didn't have the words, and he couldn't risk Bucky vanishing again, slipping away like sand under a rising tide.

 

He might not have prepared Clint, Natasha or Sam, but he'd tried to prepare Bucky. Surprisingly, sixty minutes had been enough time. Possibly too much time, because halfway through everything he thought Bucky needed to know about Natasha, Bucky had scowled. Hard.

 

“Are you…? Shit, I know how to make friends, Steve. For fucks sake.”

 

Steve tensed. This wasn’t the way he’d thought this would go. “Of course you do, I know that. I just… thought you’d appreciate the intel. So you’re all on a level playing field when you meet them.”

 

“If this is how you make friends, we need to have words,” Bucky retorted quickly. He narrowed his eyes for a few seconds then popped his lips. “It’s fine, stop freaking out and I’ll forgive you.”

 

Steve tried not to look as relieved as he felt, “Like you could stay mad at this face.”

 

“Your face _makes_ me mad, but if you're gonna spare me the pain of sitting through two more life stories, I'll forgive you anything.” He paused. “You _are_ gonna spare me, right?”

 

“No chance.”

 

Steve is ripped back into the present when his phone vibrates with a text from Clint, who stares arrowheads into Steve's skull while he reads,

 

_‘there's a winter soldier in your living room,'_

 

…

 

_‘and nobody is talking about it. wtf is going on?’_

 

…

 

_‘actually forget it, start the movie.’_

  


Meanwhile, Bucky is leaning against the doorframe, rumpled everywhere but in his eyes, which remain alert and vigilant. He’s very still, surveying the scene. And Natasha, well she's surveying him right the fuck back from her seat on the sofa.

 

It’s a tense moment, even for a super soldier, and Steve’s grateful when Sam fills the awkward silence. He's grateful right up to the point it becomes obvious that the only reason Sam's talking is so he can remind Steve he’s spent most of his day in much the same way he’s spent the last couple of weeks: chasing cold leads on an apparently no longer missing person.

 

Steve has the good grace to wince in apology, and Sam just says, “Yeah, you should be.”

 

Looking between Bucky, the last available sofa space and back to Bucky again, Sam asks. “You taking that seat?”

 

“Nah,” he says amenably. “Don’t think I’ll take my chances. Perfect line of sight from that roof,” he points, “there.”

 

Natasha snorts. “Fortunately for you Sam, every sniper we know is in this room with you.”

 

Sam purses his lips and might be fighting a grin. “You know what, that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

Bucky huffs a laugh as he walks towards Steve’s spot on the other sofa, still adorable in his soft tee and low riding sweats despite all the talk of assassination. Steve guesses he’ll pull up a chair, but he doesn’t. He lowers himself to the floor and sits with his back to the sofa. Right between Steve’s knees.

 

Steve has to work really hard not to shiver when he feels Bucky’s heat through his pants. He wonders what’s going through Bucky’s head, because not much is making sense in Steve’s. He wonders if Bucky likes the texture of fabric against his bare arms, the warmth that must pour off Steve and cocoon him.

 

For the first fifteen minutes of the movie, Steve pretends to be absorbed along with everyone else. He avoids the temptation to dip his head and map Bucky’s silhouette while he's so close, commit it to memory along with the feel of his body, solid and warm, but it’s a cruel form of torture and he's not that strong really. Before too long, he finds his eyes dropping to the curve of Bucky’s shoulder and his field of vision is filled with the creamy expanse of skin where the neck line has been tugged out of shape.

 

It's so, so tempting to reach out and touch. He knows he won’t do it. Bucky has been initiating all the touches since that time Steve had brushed his hair out of his eyes. For Steve to make the first move, well… it could drive a wedge between them. But then Steve thinks about how they’ve made the fortress of their friendship so strong, built their walls high and dug their foundations in deep, that surely a simple touch couldn't have the power to send it all tumbling.

 

Steve thinks about Azzano, a train and a plane, shackles and chairs and seas of ice. He thinks about how if all of that couldn’t break them, then how the hell could this.

 

And god’s honest truth, Bucky _does_ have a label sticking out of his t shirt.

 

Before Steve can talk himself out of it, he reaches forward, tucks the label back under the hem, and sits back. The whole process from start to finish takes a second and not single slip of skin touches, but Steve’s heart is racing.

 

He’s holding his breath and it feels like the room is too. Like the air is pulled taut around them, waiting. Then he hears Bucky take a tiny, hurried breath, and sees a little shudder run through his body. Steve’s had years to learn Bucky’s cues — yes, Bucky’s a little different now, but Steve would know him anywhere, anywhen — and he knows Bucky liked it.

 

As Steve lets the realization sink in, Bucky turns his head ever so slightly, eyes tripping up to catch Steve’s and it’s almost like he’s asking. No — more like he's waiting.

 

So Steve pretends he didn’t quite get the label first time around and reaches out again. He feels wired, exhilarated like he's taken out a hydra base, fingertips charged as though they could literally spark with static as he closes the distance again.

 

He leaves his fingers at the base of Bucky’s neck, where he can play at the ends of his hair and where he can feel the shivers on Bucky’s skin and the way Bucky sinks back into the touch, inviting more.

 

After a few minutes, Bucky slouches down, making Steve’s fingers run up his neck. He’s so warm and right there, and _Bucky_. And Steve is stroking the backs of his fingers up and down the line of his neck. They nudge at Bucky’s collar, finger dipping below the cotton, stroking over goosebumps and following the little quivers his muscles make when it feels really good.

 

Steve spares a second to send a quick, cursory glance around the room. Everyone has their backs to them, but the line of Natasha’s spine is very straight and it sets him on edge. He doesn't realize that the forward back rhythm of his thumb has stuttered until Bucky looks over his shoulder curiously. His eyes are flashing with what Steve had thought was a long-gone spark.

 

Steve’s fingers are back to brushing over Bucky’s skin again before he can fully comprehend what that spark might mean; to him, to Bucky, to them both.

 

~

 

While he absently watches pasta boil, Steve is sifting through his go-to list of ‘excuses to touch Bucky tonight.’ Weighing up his options, he steals little glances at Bucky as he searches for a DVD in the living room.

 

When he finds the case he's looking for, Bucky looks back and there’s a sudden intensity it, but the details of his face are hidden in shadows and Steve can't get a read on him. Steve’s worry that Bucky is reading exactly what he’s thinking right off his face is compounded when he moves like he's getting up to leave, but then he takes the couple of steps to the sofa and folds himself onto the floor to wait for Steve.

 

“It’s a long film,” Bucky warns, voice a little high and a lot breathless as he looks over his shoulder at Steve. “You sure you wanna start it now?”

 

Steve’s already abandoning the pasta, sliding in to take his place on the sofa, fingers finding Bucky’s hair. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he answers.

 

It’s more than fine, because the longer the film, the longer Steve gets Bucky like this.

 

God bless the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

 

~

 

After that, neither of them look for excuses.

 

Bucky will put on a movie or start a new record, then he’ll sit in front of Steve and wait. If Steve takes too long then Bucky will clear his throat and roll his shoulders so that Steve can see the play of muscles bunching and releasing under his shirt. Steve can never resist that.

 

~

 

They don’t ever talk about it, and Steve doesn’t want to force the issue for fear of losing Bucky altogether.

 

So for his part, Steve keeps the touches light, distracted and absent-minded like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing or the significance of it. He’ll put an arm over Bucky’s shoulder, rest his hand on Bucky’s neck, run his thumb gently up and down smooth skin, or slide his fingers up into Bucky’s hair and let the strands waterfall through his fingers. But in reality, nothing about it is absent-minded and nothing could ever distract Steve from Bucky.

 

As much as Bucky may melt for Steve’s touch, it doesn’t spare Steve from Bucky’s glare three quarters of the way into Love Actually.

 

“I can't believe you're making me watch this,” he says wetly. When he looks behind him to glare fiercely into Steve’s face, his eyes are shiny like he’s tearing up a bit. “You're a monster.”

 

“It was your choice, pal,” Steve reminds him. “I'm sending you my future therapy bills.”

 

“I want a divorce.”

 

“I know you missed a lot, but we ain’t married.”

 

“Yeah, well. I feel like we fucking should be for the emotional investment we’ve put in.”

 

Steve almost chokes. Well, he's not wrong. Steve just hopes his agreement isn't too quick or too enthusiastic.

 

He draws a small, slow circle into Bucky’s skin with his thumb and hopes it says all of the things he can’t. He reassures himself that actions speak louder than words.

 

~

 

Weeks trickle by and neither of them acknowledge what they do. Instead, Bucky finds other ways to seek out Steve’s touch, to say that he wants it, that he needs it.

 

If Steve were in the driving seat, he'd have tackled the unspoken words out from under the cloak of taboo and thrown them into the open, but he wants it to be on Bucky’s terms.

 

In the end, he doesn't want to be Bucky’s dirty little secret, but while he’s the one with his hands on the wheel, Bucky’s the one with his foot on the pedal.

 

Sometimes Bucky has a look in his eye that suggests he doesn’t dare to hope that he’s actually allowed to have this. Really, he should know by now that Steve would give him everything.

 

~

 

The first time that Bucky comes into the living room without a shirt on and gracefully folds himself onto the floor between Steve’s knees like he always does, Steve gapes.

 

There’s an expectation. They’ve got a routine now. Steve’s Pavlovian response is to reach out. But as much as Bucky is acting like this is all par for the course, it’s very much not.

 

There’s so much skin on show that Steve doesn’t know what to do with it. Which is a lie. He knows exactly what to do with it, and that’s a problem in itself.

 

Suppressing a groan, Steve thinks that if Bucky wants skin to skin contact, he should really have warned Steve. But then they’d actually have to talk about it.

 

When Steve bites the bullet and touches Bucky’s bare skin, he almost loses his breath. He keeps his fingers feather light, the softest brush stroke painting Bucky’s shoulder blades with warmth, and can’t properly breathe again until he hears Bucky release all of the air from his lungs in a soft, contented sigh.

 

He's so warm, skin so smooth under Steve’s fingers. Steve wonders if this is how it feels to Bucky when he trails his hands over the sofa or fists his fingers in the deep pile blanket on his bed.

 

Steve could get addicted to this feeling. _Could_ , he thinks. As if he hasn't been hooked forever.

 

Deep down, he knows that Bucky will always be the addiction he can’t kick.

 

~

 

Now he’s got Bucky back, the simple task of not losing him again is what keeps Steve going.

 

It’s not hard to adjust to this way of thinking, because it’s been ingrained in him since they met. Bucky is Steve’s first and last, the why he does what he does.

 

It makes sense then that Steve loves seeing Bucky happy.

 

He loves seeing Bucky happy with Bertie from downstairs a little less, but that’s because the only things Steve knows about the man is that he works in advertising, receives a lot of Steve’s mail and that Bucky smiles a lot when he’s with him.

 

But aside from Bertie, Steve thinks it’s nice that Bucky gets on with people and enjoys socializing, especially with Steve’s friends. In return, Clint seems to think that if they keep calling him an idiot, Bucky might start to feel at home. He might have a point.

 

No matter who it is though, it turns out that Bucky doesn’t react well to being touched by anyone but Steve.

 

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?” Sam asks Bucky sometime during their fourth movie night.

 

Bucky shoots him a look from the floor, lips twitching with a smile. “Would it matter if it was?”

 

Sam smirks and sasses back, “Not to me.”

 

“I’m gonna head off anyway,” Clint says, stretching out his back. “So you can have my seat.”

 

Bucky jumps a foot towards Steve when Clint puts a hand on his shoulder, only just stopping himself from throwing a book into Clint’s head.

 

When it’s apparent that Bucky hasn’t been triggered, and Clint’s skull is safe, Steve can’t stop feeling oddly touched, and then a strange sense of triumph. It’s a heady mix and it races through his veins to smile on his lips.

 

It’s certainly not the reaction the American public would expect from the nation’s darling, but Steve’s only human.

 

Before he excuses himself, he offers Clint’s challenging expression a conciliatory shrug.

 

In the kitchen, he glares at the floor and wonders what the hell he’s going to do. The linoleum when it replies, sounds a hell of a lot like Natasha.

 

“Talk to him,” she advises from behind Steve’s back.

 

“Don't think I asked,” he retorts.

 

She smirks. “Well either you did, or you're talking to cooking appliances. So do you want advice or do you want me to recommend a psych eval before Shield lets you back out in the field?”

 

“I've seen you talking to guns.”

 

The look she turns on him is terrifying. “ _A_ gun,” she reminds him fiercely. “Singular. _”_

 

Steve is suitably intimidated but Natasha doesn’t bring up the subject of communication again, so he figures he’s got the upper hand on that one.

 

She’s right though, and the thought sticks with him as he leaves the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and sits next to Bucky instead of behind him. If he hadn’t had a glimpse of what they could be, the decision would almost be easy.

 

He’s still closer than he should be, and though the popcorn is playing gooseberry between them, he can still feel Bucky freeze when he realizes what's happened.

 

Blue eyes glint in the dark. They steal a look at Steve; a fleeting, nervous glance which doesn't hide any of the hurt. Steve feels his heart plummet when Bucky very slowly draws in on himself, like a defeated star imploding.

 

Natasha is definitely right: talking is good. But it's times like this when a simple touch is better.

 

That's what he tells himself when his hand crosses the gap to Bucky’s hip, finger trailing over his metal forearm where it's crossed over his stomach like a shield, and runs a thumb over the inside of his other wrist.

 

Steve doesn't remove it for the whole of the movie. If he’s in agony while he waits for the tension to slowly uncoil from Bucky’s body, Steve thinks he probably deserves it.

 

~

 

Normality returns after that night. As much it's normal for two century-old super soldiers to cross the boundaries of friendship in all the ways but where it counts.

 

Bucky’s been out all day and Steve’s buzzing to touch him again. He doesn’t know where Bucky goes when he’s gone, but as long as it doesn’t involve Bertie, and as long as he comes back, Steve can rest easy.

 

It's hard to be at ease though when you're on edge with impatience. He's waiting for Bucky to hurry the hell up and sit down in front of him already, but in the end, Bucky doesn't. He sits right next to Steve, crowding against his side.

 

Then he starts shifting. Fuck does he start shifting. Scooting back until their bodies are close, closer, then overlapping, and Steve sucks in a breath.

 

He has to move, to create a little bit of space, if only for his own sanity. It’s as easy as moving an inch to the right, but in reality, it’s exponentially harder. And when he’s done it, Bucky only follows him, scooting back until they’re flush again.

 

Without thinking, Steve makes a run for it. He’ll only embarrass himself if he doesn’t. Right now at least, he still has a grasp on his control, even if it’s by the slimmest of margins.

 

He pauses for breath as soon as he’s upright, his brain capable of higher functions now that he doesn’t have six foot of long legged, sharp jawed best friend inching nearer his lap.

 

Bucky’s eyes dart upwards, unimpressed. “Where are you going?”

 

“Avengers mission,” Steve responds quickly. “I just said.”

 

“No you didn’t,” Bucky counters. It’s an incredibly reasonable argument seeing as Steve hadn’t. “And I thought you were meant to be delegating more.”

 

Steve feels his face contort with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

 

“This,” says Bucky as he grabs a thumb-worn copy of Harvard Business Review, which Steve had almost forgotten was buried underneath all of the crap he lets Bucky accumulate on the coffee table. “‘The Art of Leading Your Team,’” Bucky reads right off the top of the article.

 

“Doesn’t hurt to read around a subject when you start a new job.” Steve shifts a little, embarrassed. “The Avengers is a big deal. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

 

“You didn't and you won’t,” Bucky says, matter of fact, before smirking up into Steve’s face. “I may have added some notes of my own. Anyway, it’s a good article. You should put it into practice.” He pauses pointedly. “Delegate.”

 

“Not this one. It's umm… I need to be there.”

 

Bucky blinks slowly. “This isn't about you avoiding me then?”

 

Heart stuttering, Steve clears his throat. “No, of course not.”

 

“So delegate, then sit the fuck down.”

 

Steve takes a breath. Bucky casually refocuses on the TV, but there’s something a little off about the way he does it. Almost like he wants Steve to think he doesn’t care whether he takes his advice or not. That’s when Steve realizes that Bucky’s taking way too much interest in his team management technique.

 

“Sit,” Steve echoes. Bucky looks at him like he’s gone crazy. “And then what?”

 

“Then nothing,” Bucky says after a long second, voice a bit too tight to pass off as calm.

 

“So you don't want me to touch you?”

 

Bucky noticeably stalls in the action of turning his head back to the screen. In the background, canned laughter cackles its way into the room.

 

“Do whatever you want,” Bucky says eventually. “You're going to anyway.”

 

“Yeah, I probably am,” Steve agrees with a little smile.

 

Bucky doesn't say a word as Steve sinks down, nudging his way back into the too-small space. Nor does he say anything when Steve doesn't unlock his cell to ‘delegate’ the imagined mission.

 

When Steve turns, unnerved by Bucky’s silence, he finds Bucky wearing a truly devastating smile.

 

~

 

Ninety minutes later, Bucky has been wriggling for almost an hour.

 

Steve might be to blame. But so is Bucky. The second Steve had lost his heart in the wake of that smile, Bucky had shifted so close that Steve could smell the familiar scent of his own citrus shampoo in his hair.

 

Faced with a warm, solid Bucky stuck tight to his side, Steve decided the best defense was a good offence, and took advantage of the new position to gain full access to Bucky’s arms. He started by drawing his fingers up the inside of Bucky’s right arm, across the little dip at the crease of his elbow, the sensitive skin and veins at his inner wrist, startling nerves into a frenzy at every contact point. His fingers continued, spanning Bucky’s shoulder blades to follow the same route on his other arm. Plates and grooves and smooth metal, cool then warming under his touch.

 

Finally Bucky lets out a quiet moan into the room, and very quietly asks, “Do you want to hug me?”

 

Steve doesn't get a chance to answer. What he does get is a lapful of Bucky. He says, “Yes,” anyway. Yes, always yes. If there was a way to hug out all the hurt, then he’d do it.

 

Bucky fits against him like a lost puzzle piece. Chest to chest, thighs over Steve’s so that his knees press into the back of the sofa.

 

All Steve can hear is the hitch as Bucky draws in a breath, the stuttering as he exhales that tells tales about how much he loves this. The twitch of his hips as he tucks his head into Steve’s neck. He breathes Steve’s name into his skin, seals it with an open-mouthed kiss and pants, hot and humid into the space between them.

 

It's not long before Bucky’s breath starts to come quicker. “Sorry, I—”

 

He goes to pull away, tugging out of Steve’s arms, hips angled away from Steve’s stomach to try and hide the hardness Steve knew he hadn’t imagined a second ago.

 

“Bucky, wait,” Steve says quickly, relieved when Bucky slows to a stop. He takes a breath. This is important. “I’m not stopping you from getting up, but don’t do it because you think it's what I want.”

 

In the span of the breath Steve’s holding, Bucky stills, his eyes tripping over Steve’s face.

 

Then he bites his lip in that way of his that never fails to get Steve’s blood hot, and slides back into Steve’s space, bumping their chests gently as he moves Steve’s hands from his hips to the swell of his ass.

 

Steve splays his fingers, hips rolling up and watches as Bucky’s eyes turn smoky.

 

“Steve, please.”

 

So this is what Bucky looks like when he’s turned on. Steve's always wondered. He's entirely unsurprised to discover that the sight is a breathtaking one.

 

Steve presses against the small of Bucky’s back, in the enticing dip of his spine, encouraging him to grind in more of those maddening circles. Bucky grins and Steve lets his hands touch like they’ve wanted to since this all started and for as long as can remember. His palms run over Bucky’s skin, pushing his tee up and off and finding all his curves, all his sharper edges and firm lines.

 

His fingers find themselves buried in Bucky’s hair. He’s used to this feeling of silk on his fingertips, tickling the back of his hand, but he’s never done this before, never grabbed a handful of it. He watches Bucky’s eyes roll back at the tug, just like he’d suspected they might.

 

“Feel good?”

 

“S’good,” Bucky chokes out, voice raspy. “So good.”

 

His hips are rocking forwards rhythmically, eyes sliding out of focus. The sight of him, flushed and pretty, lights a fire in Steve’s belly. Has him surging forwards to attach his mouth to the dip just under Bucky’s ear, the one he likes to touch with his index finger. He licks over it, nips at it,  and laughs breathlessly when Bucky groans, short and sweet and really fucking hot.

 

“You gonna kiss me,” Bucky asks, “or am I gonna have to wait another seventy years?”

 

Steve chuckles, the vibrations of it transferring skin to skin, and Bucky sets his hands on his chest, rocking down hard against his cock.

 

“ _Fuck_. Yeah, I’ll kiss you,” Steve answers, slipping his hand under the waistband of Bucky’s sweats.

 

Bucky grins all the way into the kiss, moaning low into the press of their mouths when Steve’s fingers curl around him, jacking him fast, and complies eagerly when Steve tips his head for a better angle.

 

It’s probably little over a minute later, a minute of Bucky gasping, as hot and humid as the air they’ve heated around them, beautiful face washed through with pleasure. A minute of him rocking into Steve’s fist, head thrown back, hair a manhandled mess. It’s a minute Steve won’t forget. Then Bucky drops forward, forehead thumping on Steve’s collarbone, and spills into Steve’s hand.

 

Everything from the gasp on Bucky’s lips, to the way he licks his lips when his blown-out eyes trip down to Steve’s zipper, gets Steve so close to the edge that there's no point even entertaining the idea of letting Bucky slip to his knees for him.

 

Not a mind reader, Bucky's whispering, “I want you in my mouth,” and it's _not_ helping.

 

In one quick movement, Steve flips Bucky onto his back, letting his weight press Bucky’s body into the cushions.

 

Bucky just grins and hooks his leg over Steve’s hip, rolling with the dirty thrusts.

 

“God, Bucky.”

 

It's all he can think to say before his muscles are bunching and he comes with a tremble that sparks its way down his body. The force of it stuns him and leaves him dazed.

 

Through the haze, he hears Bucky’s soft whisper laugh. “Fuck.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.

 

“If you're about to say something stupid about how you don't know where the fuck that came from, you can stop now.”

 

Steve smirks. “Wasn't gonna.”

 

Bucky smirks right back before his face turns serious. “I wasn’t gonna leave you hanging, you know. Would have sucked you off if you’d let me.”

 

“I wouldn’t have lasted.”

 

“Yeah well, it's not like I lasted long either,” Bucky laughs. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. Don’t want to end up like Too-Soon-Tom.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Too-Soon-Tom,” Bucky repeats. “It’s what all the girls used to call Tom Franklyn from Henry Street. Can’t believe you’d forget that.”

 

Steve shakes his head on a smile, shifting a little uncomfortably in his jeans “I can’t believe you’d _remember_ that.”

 

“It’s all about getting your priorities right,” Bucky tells him with a wry tap at the back of his head, somewhere in the general vicinity of his temporal lobe. The allusion to long term memory, or lack thereof, doesn’t go down well with Steve.

 

He narrows his eyes. “I’m not ready to joke about that yet.”

 

“Aww, is it too raw? It must be terrible for _you_.”

 

Steve swims in Bucky’s smile for a few blissful seconds, then pulls him close and tells him to _shuddup._

 

He rests his head to Bucky’s. “Feel good?”

 

“Feel amazing.”

 

For the last few years, Steve’s life had felt like a rollercoaster. If rollercoasters only ever went down, that is.

 

Most nights during those years, when he tried to chase sleep and peace, he’d think about how he loved Bucky.

 

Now he thinks about it again.

 

They're both slipping into sleep as the words cross his mind.

 

_I love you, Buck._

 

Under the blanket of Bucky’s contented, sleepy sighs, fear fades to black and before he can wonder if the words have slipped his lips, he's out for the count.

 

~

 

Steve wakes up to Bucky’s key in the lock.

 

He squints through the amazement that he’s actually slept longer than three hours straight, and pushes a hand through his hair although he knows full well that it’ll do nothing to correct the mess Bucky’s fingers made of it last night.

 

A groan escapes him when he gets a look at the dinner plates they didn’t put away, and the pizza boxes on the floor, and the t shirt lying where it had been thrown on the other side of the room.

 

Picking up one of the plates, Steve finds the copy of Harvard Business Review lying in wait for him. It sits there like a message from some higher power. Probably Bucky.

 

There’s a little orange sticky note with a neat arrow drawn in green biro. It points to the subtitle: _Communication_. The whole thing is the tidiest arrangement in the whole damn apartment and Steve finds his vision narrowing under the force of the smile that overtakes his face. Definitely Bucky.

 

It’s like a weight has been lifted. Steve’s been wanting to say what he really feels for longer than he can remember. Hated that he couldn’t say it out loud.

 

Quickly changing into clean sweats, he follows the sound of Bucky moving about the kitchen, jaw set with a new determination. Ready to talk, to tell Bucky that he loves him, always has, and that—

 

Steve stalls when his eyes fall on the bunch of flowers draping themselves on the counter next to Bucky’s hip. They’re still in their gift wrap, next to a stack of envelopes and a box of decorated cupcakes which look phenomenal, but Steve can’t think about how delicious a bite of red velvet would taste right about now, because _flowers._ Someone has bought Bucky flowers, and it wasn’t Steve.

 

“Who…?”

 

At the sound of Steve’s voice, Bucky turns and his face breaks into one of those stunning sweetheart smiles that on any other occasion would make Steve’s heart skip. Right now, Steve doesn’t think it’s even beating.

 

Bucky’s forehead furrows as he follows Steve’s line of sight. “Oh right, yeah,” he says as he turns to grab the letters, “Bertie’s still getting your post.”

 

Steve takes the envelopes like they might burn him. He knows his shoulders are dropping in defeat and he straightens his back a little. He’s not a quitter, but if he was, this would probably be his world imploding.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, too loud in the small room that already feels cramped to bursting with morning sunlight and the full force of Bucky’s smile.

 

The smile doesn’t waver in the wake of Steve’s outburst, but Bucky does blink and raise his eyebrows, probably wondering why Steve is so upset about mail misdirection.

 

“I don’t think this neighbor’s a spy,” he teases. “But really, don’t worry about it. Bertie’s actually been really good about the whole mix up.”

 

Steve grits his teeth and feels his jaw tick.

 

“Anyway, we need to talk.” Bucky pulls a water jug from the cupboard and takes it over to the faucet.

 

Talk. _Communicate._ Right.

 

Bucky’s voice when he starts the ‘talk’ is light and conversational, but there’s tension underneath. “You know,” he says as water thunders into the jug. “We could go on like this forever. If I never move out, we’ll stay just as we are.”

 

Bucky carries the jug over to the flowers, not looking at Steve once. He probably doesn’t see Steve’s face fall. He probably doesn’t know that the sound as he snips the cellophane from the flowers could almost be Steve’s heart slicing into two.

 

But jesus, Steve is so fucking gone for him that he can't even give up now. Not even when Bucky’s accepting flowers from fucking Bertie and is talking about moving out. So Steve forces himself to speak even though it hurts. “What’s so wrong with that?”

 

Bucky, who is in the middle of rearranging the flowers so that the shorter stems are at the front of the jug, pauses for a fraction of a second. Then he takes in the arrangement and slowly turns, leaning his back against the counter and bringing his hands up to grip the edges. “Nothing would ever change Steve.”

 

It would be the easiest thing in the world to tell Bucky that this is all he’s wanted. The whole time he thought he’d lost him, all Steve’s wanted is Bucky back. But every day since that brilliant, joyous Tuesday night, Steve has thought that maybe Bucky doesn’t share that opinion.

 

On the other side of the room, Bucky seems to be steeling himself. “I know that if I stay, this could go on forever.” Steve is so concentrated on staying calm, watching with too much focus as Bucky bites his lower lip, that he almost misses it when Bucky says, “I already said didn't I? Shit, what I mean is that we’ll just carry on being... ‘you and me’ and not ‘us’... forever—”

 

Steve opens his mouth and quickly closes it before his heart escapes.

 

“— and I don’t even think super soldiers have forever,” Bucky is saying, crossing and uncrossing his arms nervously. “So, I umm… bought you some flowers. Sunflowers, because they’re bright and bold, and they remind me of you. And lilies, because they were your mom’s favorites and you wanted them at her funeral but they would have set off your asthma.”

 

Steve holds his breath as Bucky flicks his eyes back up at him, shining and dark with intensity.

 

“Figured the world hasn’t changed that much in 70 years. People still say _I love you_ with flowers right? Anyway, they’re here.” Bucky gestures over his shoulder, swallows and moves to the kettle. “Do you want coffee?”

 

Steve takes a deep breath to try and keep every single happy thought from busting out and drowning him. He needs to check, needs to be sure. “Buck, what… what did you say?”

 

“I said, do you want coffee?”

 

“No, no—everything before that. Everything _but_ that.”

 

The corners of Bucky’s bite-swollen lips curl upwards. “You heard.”

 

“I thought the flowers were from Bertie.”

 

“I hate to break this to you Steve, but Bertie’s not really into you.”

 

Steve hears his own startled laugh, finding it hard to believe that he can do anything other than stand stock-still in shock and hope. “Guess he’s in denial.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh. “As it goes, I don’t really care who Bertie’s into.”

 

He doesn't get to say anything else because Steve steps into his space, pulls him close and buries his face into his shoulder.

 

Bucky lets out a sigh so deep and sweet it's like he’s been holding it for all the Tuesdays, and the days and weeks in between. Maybe all the years since they were eighteen too.

 

They kiss, soft but sure. It's made of all the things they've said dozens of times before with a touch, and all the _I love yous_ they hadn't said until they're now whispering them against each others’ lips.

 

Eventually, Steve lets the kiss break. He sends a dizzy smile at the flowers, sitting pretty in their vase.

 

“Bucky,” he suddenly says in low reproach, “are those… forget-me-nots?”

 

Steve’s holding Bucky so close, so tight, that his whole body moves when Bucky shrugs innocently. “Thought it would be funny.”

 

“It’s really not.”

 

Bucky snickers. “Still so much stupid,” he grins into Steve’s neck.

  
~

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Ellie Goulding track, I’ll hold my breath


End file.
